


Truly Blessed

by faeriesung



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, big brother Fëanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriesung/pseuds/faeriesung
Summary: "You are truly blessed. May you grow in strength and wisdom, and may you never bear any burden such as mine."





	1. Chapter 1

Fëanor does not particularly like this wing of the Palace of Tirion. It is old, and seldom used now. This part of the Palace has been present for as long as he remembers – it had probably been constructed before his birth. He remembers it from his childhood – snippets of walking along this corridor, sitting alone quietly in one of the large drawing rooms. The corridor has not been lit at this time of day – the old lamps sit in their nooks in the walls, cold. The walls and ceiling of this wing are paneled with wood, beautifully carved and painted with patterns of leaves, buds and flowers intertwined – fading a little now that not very much care has been taken for this part of the palace for some time. A dim light filters through the heavily curtained windows -- there is a musty smell about the wood and the velvety fabric of the curtains that bothers him – the corridors seems so narrow now, and the windows smaller than he remembers from many years ago -- so different from the newer, more open styles of construction that became fashionable as the Noldor discovered stones and marbles and gained in skills and knowledge through the years. 

This highly regarded craftsman of the Noldor is now, anyhow, only here for a reprieve from the long drawn-out meeting of the three Kings of the Eldar taking place at the great hall near the central courtyard. It seems that no guest would be housed in this deserted wing for the evening. Fëanor has not entered this wing himself since before he could reach the latch of the window. He tries to search his memory – one of the rooms may still have some books on the shelves and a usable writing desk. 

As he turns a corner, he catches a whiff of burning cedar – the scent seems to be wafting from a door that is uncannily ajar. 

If he were to be completely honest, Fëanor would not mind this wing to be burnt down entirely, but still he hastens to the door. He pushes the door open to find a young elfling clad in plain tunic and leggings. The small boy cannot have seen more than a few passing of the seasons – yet he is alone, kneeling in front of a large fireplace of a white, austere façade, coughing from smoke -- his hands, clothes and face stained with soot. The boy strikes tenaciously at a couple of flint stones. 

A page to one of the guests perhaps? The boy has not noticed him. Fëanor intends to pull the boy away from the fireplace – as he approaches he notices a piece of elaborately embroidered court dress, about the size for the boy, draped over the back of a chair. 

The boy has noticed him, and he looks up at him, wide-eyed and apprehensive. Fëanor picks up the boy’s coat, glaring at the boy unreservedly. He has recognized the emblems embroidered on the collar and the cuffs instantly – heraldic device of the house of Finwë joined with emblems of the family of Lady Indis. 

“What are you doing here?” Fëanor does not mean to shout, but his voice rings loud, stern and scathing. “Why are you here and not with your Mother?”

“… Fëanáro?” The boy’s response is barely audible. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Fëanor shakes the small embroidered coat and trousers open and lays them back neatly over the back of the chair, remembering to subdues his tone this time.

“I can’t breathe in those clothes, and this room is cold.” The boy seems to have found some courage in his voice. He puts down the flint stones he has been laboring over for almost a quarter of an hour, and stands up to face the older elf, struggling a little. His full height is only up to Fëanor’s navel, his knees red from kneeling. The boy’s blue eyes gaze up to meet Fëanor’s. The older one’s pewter, steely and unwavering, the younger one’s still wide with apprehension, but shines with a certain light. Gentle curves of brown hair frame the boy’s round face.

“Stand aside.” Fëanor says curtly. He crouches at the fireplace to find a few pieces of old firewood, still smoking, and some balled-up, half-burnt paper. He takes a knife from his pocket and shaves a few thin, laddered layers on the exposed sapwood, slices out a few thin pieces, and then arranges the different pieces in a rough triangle. He strikes the flint stones in a crisp, practiced motion. The young elf watches in utter amazement as a fire quickly begins to bud. 

Fëanor nods at the young elf cursorily, and he sees the admiration in his small face, but he looks away immediately, remaining silent.


	2. Chapter 2

It is snowing outside – a rare occurrence in Aman. Snow is usually more prevalent in the far north – perhaps it is merely a whim of the Valar. Fëanor has heard it said that the cold and the snow bring the soil to a different condition and allow some types of plants to grow better. He has studied a little of this, but he is no forester, instead he has often drawn inspiration from the intricate, symmetrical shapes of snow crystals. The snow is light now – their snowflakes fall slowly, swaying and turning whichever way the movement of air take them. Tirion has been covered with a layer of white - the sheen from the snow, usually beautiful, dulls slightly through the thick panels of these large, modestly carved window frames in the old drawing room.

“Fëanáro?” A small voice calls. Fëanor looks at the young boy properly now – soot-stained hands raised towards the small fire, his small head turned and chin raised to seek his eyes. Fëanor could almost see himself doing the same, years ago in a time he only recalls without his own volition, in the same room, from the same fireplace, looking up at an adult figure.

“You need to go back to your Mother.” Fëanor reaches down to takes the boy’s hand – he pulls the small wrist away from the fireplace, too hasty and forceful, but he realises it too late. The boy grimaces in pain. 

Fëanor lets go of his grip – the boy cowers and wraps his wrist with his other hand immediately, nursing it at his chest.

Fëanor scowls – and he finds that his hand, too has been stained with soot. 

“Wait for me here.” Fëanor commands. “Do not wander.”

There is yet another reason he does not like this wing of the palace. He is not sure if there is running water. He fetches an empty jug from a corner of the room and goes in search of fresh water – and as he expected, the spout at the end of the corridor that usually has water streaming from the tip of a carved leaf runs dry – a droplet of ice hangs from the leaf instead.

Inside the room, the elfling has found himself a chair that he has pushed in front of the small fire, that is already dying out – he looks around the fireplace for a stack of chopped firewood but finds none. He goes to the writing desk to look for more parchment paper – and finds one with old, almost completely faded writing on it. He has made the parchment paper into a roll and is about to feed it into the feeble fire when the door opens again.

The majestic elf enters – the one whom he knows as Curufinwë Fëanáro – tall, his steps sweeping, dressed in a silver coat lined with gold – his chest bearing an eight-pointed star, a circlet that shimmers like the leaves of the two trees around his forehead. The tall elf glares at him with his steely grey eyes and pulls the scroll from his hand – as abruptly as he had pulled his wrist before and it still aches form the clench of his large hand. He knows – he should not have taken the parchment and he should say something, but he finds himself unable to. The tall elf seems to swoop over him and he falters, taking a step back, knocking into the steel frame in front of the fire. 

Fëanor steadies the elfling with a hand on his small shoulder. The boy is afraid, but he does not mean for that to happen. He sets the scroll of parchment down behind him – in his other hand he carries a jug full with water. 

“Fetch the copper basin and sit.” Fëanor says with a low voice, trying to muster some control on his tone. The boy obliges. 

The tall elf kneels in front of the chair now to fill the copper basin with water – and he looks less imposing – the cuffs of his coat sleeves and tips of his shoes are wet, as well as the strands of hair that have gotten loose from his circlet. A few snowflakes still cling to his shoulders and the top of his head. 

Fëanor holds the basin in front of the elfling, and gives him a instructive look he seems to understand – he dips a finger in the water tentatively. Fëanor reaches out for the boy’s hand, but he immediately withdraws it, sending a droplets of cold water into Fëanor’s face. 

Fëanor looks up – the elfling draws back, brows locked, his shoulders shaking. The child wants to say something but his lips only tremble. Fëanor sighs and looks away. The boy was confident only a moment before, but now hesitant and fearful. He reaches to his collar to undo the buttons and unknot the cloth tied around his neck – and only now realises how uncomfortable he has been himself – he longs to tear his own court dress off his shoulders to breathe more freely. The meetings, the palace, the cold, the smoke from the dying fire, long-buried memories that have been floating unabashedly into his mind make his throat tight. His eyes dart to the elfling’s small, bare feet – red from the cold now and perhaps even more sooty than his hands – and the embers glowing in the hearth. Fëanor throws water at them to put them out completely.

“Come with me,” Fëanor holds out an open palm to the young elfling. “This place is too cold. I will take you to my former studio – there I can build a proper fire for warmth.”

The elfling meets his eyes for a moment, as if asking for answers to a question. He reaches out to rest his small hand on his palm. This time, he gently puts a thumb on the back of the boy’s hand. He draws the child into an embrace to carry him up, and he lets him.

Young Nolofinwë finds himself wrapped up in his half-brother’s riding cloak, lined with a wolf’s pelt. Warm, and comfortable, and shielded from most of the snow. He sits in front of his older brother, his head against his chest. His brother’s steed walks slowly on the snowy grounds. Fëanáro has an arm around him to keep him steady. Nolofinwë lets his eyelids fall --momentarily forgetting the ache in his hands and feet – this niche seems to be made for him – it so reminds him of riding with their Father.


	3. Chapter 3

Beneath a spiral flight of stone steps, the entrance hall is dark and narrow, but the door in the stone wall has been left ajar, and a warm glow spills from it, flickering against the panels. The arched door’s dark, oaken panels have been inlaid with a marquetry of cherrywood, in the pattern of constellations, smoothly polished and subtly fitted together in steel, set to a simple but stylish frame. A gentle laughter and intermittent voices echo from the room within, soft echoes dance and dart about, rising and falling in the vaulted chamber. 

Indis pushes through the door, sending the latch to clang against the wall, a few scrolls of parchment tumble from their shelf. 

“Aracáno!” Indis throws her arms around her young son, and draws him close to her – she bestows loving kisses on the small child’s face and forehead. The child smiles happily, and his eyelashes flutter as his mother kisses him. _"Oh, how have you got here? Have you gotten hurt?"_

Indis lays the child’s bare hands in her own, and she bends down to kiss them, and then his bare feet, her cascade of golden hair drapes over her child’s shoulder, illuminated by the fire from the hearth next to them. 

The snow on her boots and ermine-lined riding cloak is melting quickly – droplets of water drip from the lining of the hood and from the decorative tips along the hem. Her boots have made a trail of damp prints on the smooth stone floor. 

“Shall I brush your boots, Lady Indis?” Fëanor pipes from his seat an arm’s throw from the hearth, dressed in plain, loose-fitting work clothes, legs crossed on a wooden chair, a book in hand. Indis has made the narrow passageway to the door inaccessible – he will pick up the fallen scrolls later.

“Fëanáro,” Indis says calmly. “You could have brought him to me.”

“My apologies, Lady Indis.”

Indis merely looks at Fëanor, and says nothing in reply. 

_"Aracáno.”_ She turns to her child. Nolofinwë glances at Fëanor briefly, but the mother and child begin to converse softly in a quick, rhythmic, and mellifluous speech of the Vanyar. Indis’s brows furrow and she speaks reprimandingly. The little child whines and tries to explain himself. 

_“I made the embroidery to match your bearing, and the colour of your hair and eyes, what should I do now?”_

_“You could have them altered for your second one.”_ Fëanor says, to his best knowledge of the Vanyarin dialect. he deems it to be academically precise.

Indis looks up. Her round, deep-set blue eyes fix upon Fëanor, the smile she had for her child a moment before tightens into a thin, polite one. 

_“Your second son, Arafinwë.”_ Fëanor corrects.

 

Since the day a child between Finwë and Indis was begotten, Fëanor began to meet with polite smiles and nods along the hallways of Tirion. People looked away, and halted their discussions as soon as they sensed his presence. He had not had to endure this since the time he wandered those paneled corridors of the old wing alone – shut in for days, months, seasons, just to avoid those idle whispers that seemed to crawl through the crack between the window and its frame like vines, even though no one except his Father dared enter those halls. 

He didn’t know what voice poured from his throat, that scraped his own ears and sent his head ringing – howls that only belonged to the fell beasts in the mountains – when attendants to his house and servants to the Valar came to retrieve tapestries woven by his mother, Míriel Þerindë.

_We, Curufinwë Fëanáro, Prince of the Noldor, Firstborn Son to Finwë, High King of the Noldor of the Eldar and Lady Míriel Þerindë, First to Awake at Cuiviénen, First to Follow in the Great March, hereby command you, all of you, to leave this room!_

He has heard his title being spoken every time he entered court, and he had spelled it out himself when he made his wedding vow to Nerdanel – a few epithets and academic titles have been added as time went by. But he does not recall speaking it again with such authority as that day. 

  


_“Oh, Aracáno, my dear child, how careless of you…”_ The mother coos and hums, kissing the child’s face and forehead again... A light seems to emanate from their silhouette, against this dark room and the shadows cast by the dancing hearth fire – their faces shine when their like-coloured eyes meet – their smiles mirroring each other – a bond pure as the strongest gem, a sight so sacred and perfect that has him transfixed, but lodges a cold stake through his heart.

Aracáno – _High-chieftain_ , was a name that came to Indis upon the begetting of her first child with the High King Finwë. Fëanor would never utter that name, as it is laden with such meaning and foreboding. Fëanor thinks that he cannot yet fully grasp what the name portends, let alone a mere child. 

Indis is a figure of radiant grace and beauty, she is also deftly sociable, and ambitious. If Fëanor were to put aside his personal circumstances, he might even admit that, on the veneered occasion of court formalities, Indis could be an equitable consort to the King of the Noldor. It is not difficult to conjecture that she may have named her child out of her own intentions. But Fëanor would not even place the weight of the child’s name upon Indis. He has pondered upon it, as he did his own name that he did not choose for himself and that he once feared and resented. 

_Eru has set in me a fire._ Fëanor has always known this, as early as when he first began to recognize sounds, colours and faces. This fire had, without his permission, caused such suffering that he was too young, too powerless to mitigate, but now he could at last relish in what it lends to his learning and creation. Gradually, he has come to feel that this fire has so intensified, that the peace and predictability of Aman may not contain it forever. 

Those who chatter behind the columns that line the hallways of Tirion may say anything they wish of him – but he has always known, that he is meant to seek something beyond any accomplishment of his own hands – a task greater than himself, and even in defiance of the Valar. He knows that he has the ore of foresight and knowledge buried in him – it is only now beginning to take shape. 

_If Nolofinwë is to be the High Chieftain, what of Curufinwë Fëanáro?_

Perhaps the High Chieftain of the Noldor Nolofinwë may as well be, within the blessed realm of Aman – but it will be Curufinwë Fëanáro who will lead the Eldar to where they are ordained to return. 

_To whence the Quendi joined the Great Journey, to their birthplace under the stars._

It is a notion that none has dared to utter, and would even be considered a blasphemy if suggested, but this has only strengthened his conviction. Fëanor has his sights set on the seas, and the vast, unconquered land beyond – dark and uncertain, untouched by the light of Aman – even before any son has been born to him – he believes that only there will the flame within him come to its true brilliance.

If not for the birth of the Nolofinwë, Son of Indis, he would not have, through years of toil and tribulation in his work and his thoughts, come upon this realisation, and have, at last come to fully embrace the meaning of his name. 

It is not for Indis’ child to bear the weight of such foreboding. And he shall not learn of these notions that would be condemned as blasphemy if uttered, so shall he never carry that blame on his shoulder, should it ever come to pass that he, Curufinwë Fëanáro would defy the Valar. This child has been so loved and blessed by the Valar, more so than he was. 

 

“The banquet will be starting shortly,” Indis says, in the speech of the Noldorin court. “Come with us, Fëanáro.”

“Will you please convey my apologies to Atar?” Fëanáro replies, coolly. ”That I may be excused from the banquet.”

“Nerdanel and Mahtan are present,” Indis retorts, without raising her voice. She looks at Finwë’s firstborn son in calm resignation. “You should at least show yourself out of respect for your wife, even if you are so often inclined to dismiss your father’s summons.”

“Work in the forge has kept me preoccupied.” 

Fëanor rises from his chair to retrieve the scrolls that had fallen as Indis entered. He places them neatly back to their designated places on the shelf as Indis and her son leave.


	4. Chapter 4

The chair next to Atar is empty. It is almost always empty, whenever there is a family occasion. It is being reserved for Curufinwë Fëanáro. It is Nolofinwë’s begetting day. Nolofinwë Aracáno. It is his 10th summer. Everyone calls him Aracáno, with love in their eyes, except for Fëanáro. He never calls him by name. He never calls him anything. Except Son of Indis, when he must.

Fëanáro is not here. He has never been here for Nolofinwë’s begetting day. Nolofinwë thought it was because he hadn’t written an invitation himself – he was too little to, but this time, he wrote to Fëanáro, in Tengwar. It took him two days – he practiced many, many times until he was almost happy with it – he wondered how Fëanáro would think of it.

Well, Nolofinwë hasn't received a reply. Atar and Emmë try to talk about something else – but he wouldn’t stop thinking about his brother Fëanáro, and why he hasn’t arrived.

He had met him in the corridor after the banquet – he was there to accompany Nerdanel. He told them about his begetting day. It was two seasons ago. Nolofinwë has not seen his brother since, but he thought about him, at every chance. He imagined his brother walking along the same paths as he did, when he was little like him. He wondered if his brother reached out his hand to touch the water from the fountain as he passed it.

 It took Nolofinwë many days to plan this begetting day, and he had planned it with Fëanáro in mind – he would be the most important guest, even more so than his best friends.

The circlet on Nolofinwë’s head is getting very uncomfortable. He throws it down on the table, and leaves his seat – Atar and Emmë tries to say something – something about it not being proper, about the party not being over yet – but he doesn’t hear them. Everyone had finished saying their wishes, finished singing, finished eating, finished asking about things, finished drinking, finished talking. The chair next to Atar is still empty – there is a plate with a slice of cinnamon and apple cake – a big slice. Someone tried to remove the slice of cake after everyone had finished but Nolofinwë slammed the table to stop them.

The little prince doesn’t know where he is going, no he is not Aracáno, he is not any kind of High-chieftain, he planned the party for his brother. For days, he chased after the household staff to make sure everything has been set up right. He had asked Atar what Fëanáro’s favourite colours and plants were, what his favourite foods were, where his favourite garden was, and then at last, he carefully wrote him an invitation. But Fëanáro wasn’t there.

Everything is a blur – the statues are too tall in the corridor. He doesn’t like the colour of the carpet on the marble floor – he wants to go away, so that the itch in his eyes and heaviness in his head will leave him.   

“Nolofinwë?”

He hears his name and he runs forward. He knows that it is not proper, he knows that he doesn't really know Fëanáro very well, he doesn’t know what he would think of it, but he runs towards him.

“You have no reason to cry.” His brother says.

And he tries not to. He doesn’t realise he has been crying. He can’t let his brother see that he still cries.

Fëanáro’s hands feels really rough against his face. But they are warm. Fëanáro brushes those tears away with a thumb. Nolofinwë doesn’t think there is anyone else with hands like that. So much strength is hidden in them, yet they can move so delicately.

“I have received your letter.” Fëanáro says slowly. Now, Nolofinwë could see his brother’s face properly. His contours are really soft, but he has a sharp nose, and a high forehead. His eyes are really deep-set, and grey like Atar’s. He doesn’t look as scary as he remembered.

“It was well-written.” Fëanáro leans in to kiss his little brother on the forehead. He has never, ever done that before.

And it means the whole world. Nolofinwë remembers he should say thank you, but he can’t find the words. He could only feel the warmth from Fëanáro’s hands on his shoulders.

“I will tutor you to write.” Fëanáro says. “So that you may improve.”

Fëanáro takes Nolofinwë’s small hands in his.

“You are truly blessed.” As Fëanáro speaks, Nolofinwë feels a strange tug in his heart, that Nolofinwë doesn’t really understand. His brother's tone sounds somewhat wistful, and his eyes have a faraway look about them. “May you grow in strength and wisdom, and may you never bear any burden such as mine.”

“You could find me at my forge if you need me.”

Fëanáro turns to leave. Nolofinwë watches him go, further and further. He wishes he could hug his brother, so tight that he would stay, and he wants to shout his name, but he doesn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

These days, Fëanor does not spend much time in his study. The forge has become his abode. Nerdanel works in her studio nearby. He realises that they don’t see very much of each other – only in the evening that they have supper together, and then they sleep together. He has been meaning to make more time for her. 

He began working on metal many years ago, and for some years he has set his work in writing and language aside to lend more time to refining techniques in metalwork. May aspects of metalwork intrigue him, especially the versatility – from creating sturdy, functional tools, to forming intricate shapes. The knowledge is practical, and vast. He is still experimenting with various materials and approaches. Recently, he has made visits to the Teleri shipwrights to gain some insight into shipbuilding. He has brought with him some tools from the shipwrights, and plans to improve the tools in design and function. It is the mixing of the lights, and he has it in his mind to begin making drawings and alternative designs of the tools, which he has been studying closely for some time.

The curtains to his study have been drawn so that it is dark, but this space is so familiar to him that he finds his desk easily. As he draws open a curtain, he finds a wooden box and a small scroll of parchment, sealed with wax and a seal he has not seen before.

Inside the box is a cake, from his childhood, with a soft cake base, baked with yeast, and egg white beaten till filled with air – sliced apples placed in loops on top, flavoured with cinnamon and glazed. At first glance he thought it was from Nerdanel, however, a few violets have been placed in a particular design on top of the cake. He recognises their distinct shape and colour – these are from the palace gardens of Tirion. 

Fëanor breaks the seal to the scroll. In the dim light before Laurelin has fully bloomed, he makes out a drawing, made by a child. A drawing of a few people – a person with dark hair and a golden crown, flanked by a person with yellow hair and a silver circlet, and a person with white hair and a silver circlet. They are holding hands. The person with white hair holds the hand of a smaller person with dark hair. The person with yellow hair holds a smaller person with brown hair, and a smaller person with yellow hair. At the bottom of the paper, there are ten piglets of wild boar, each holding a different flower in their mouth. _To Fëanáro, my brother. Signed, by Nolofinwë._

Fëanor throws down the parchment. He wants to throw it in a fire – if the hearth had been lit, he might have put the drawing to the fire immediately. He cannot bear to look at it, even though he knows what the child means.

He takes a knife to cut a slice of the cake. The familiar scent and taste of violets, spices, apples, and ingredients from Tirion is a welcome respite from a day spent in the grueling heat of the forge, it mellows him, and brings him back to a time when everything seemed incredibly bright.

  


_“What does Lady Míriel Þerindë look like?”_

The child had asked. Normally, he would have ignored this question. In fact, no one had ever deigned ask him this, or mention the name of his mother in his presence. Those very few who ventured to make any vague insinuation were made sure to regret it.

Fëanáro held the child’s small foot in his hand. He held a damp cloth in his other hand to clean the black soot from the old hearth that had clung to the child’s feet. He had never done this for anyone, so he polished the grooves around the child’s toe nails as he would a gem. 

“Well… she has silver hair, and grey eyes, like myself and Atar.” Fëanáro replied quietly. He looked up at the child’s small face, glowing in the warm light from the hearth fire. “It is said that, I resemble her in appearance.”

“Really?” The boy’s star-blue eyes widened with curiosity.

Fëanáro found himself smiling. Nolofinwë’s eyes had a truly unique colour. The way his eyes widened and how his little face framed by those messy curls raised up in surprise looked a little comical, and so full of innocence, he could not help but smile. The little one smiled back, reservedly at first, but then his shoulders pulled back and he let out a little laugh, and it seemed to disperse the silence and misunderstanding that hung in the air a moment before. 

“Yes,” Fëanáro said, surprised by how candidly he was able to respond now. He had never even been able to talk about this with Nerdanel. “And do you know what she used to do, when I was little, like you? She used to put flowers in between my toes, and tell a little story.”

“What story?”

Fëanáro paused for a moment.

“Are you familiar with the creatures of the forest?”

“I have never been to a forest.” Nolofinwë said ruefully. “I’ve only seen drawings in books.”

“That has to be rectified.” Fëanáro replied, with a meaning look into Nolofinwë’s eyes.

“Let’s begin with those on the ground.” Fëanáro held on to Nolofinwë’s big toe gently. “What can you find?”

“Worms, beetles, grasshoppers, cricket…”

“And the adder, I suppose you have never seen one?”

Nolofinwë shook his head.

“They go after he rodents, lizards and frogs, for food.” Fëanáro said. “Females are light brown with a darker zigzag pattern. Males are grey, but in contrast with their dark zigzag pattern, they appear to have a greenish hue, seen from the eye.”

As Fëanáro spoke, he took Nolofinwë’s hand and drew zigzags along his forearm. 

“Those snakes, they are venomous. They are sacred guardians of the forest, together with the eagles, and other birds of prey in the sky.” Fëanáro hooked his thumb together, extending his other fingers to either side. “Can you do the same?”

They turned towards the wall on the opposite side of the fireplace, decorated with several faded blueprints and drawings – their shadows, which appeared much bigger than themselves, were cast among some shelves and low tables. Fëanáro made a swooping motion with his hands, their shadow emerged from one of the shelves towards the lighter part of the wall. Nolofinwë followed suit, making loops behind the bigger eagle.

“If my hands would be the wingspan of an eagle, yours would probably be…” Fëanáro placed his hands alongside the younger one’s. “A hawk, maybe. Or a fledgling in first flight.”

Fëanáro turned towards his half-brother. Nolofinwë was beaming in earnest amazement, at his older brother. Fëanáro realised that no one had ever looked at him in such innocent, genuine admiration. 

“Who would be the guardians of the forest, who walk on four legs?”

“… the deer?”

“They are the wolf, the bear and the lynx.” Fëanáro traced the tip of Nolofinwë’s ear lightly. “The lynx, has a tuft of hair at the tip of its ears.”

Nolofinwë grinned shyly. 

“Now, what are some other animals that inhabit the forest?” Fëanáro continued. “The deer is one.”

“Um, squirrels, foxes, badgers, and... the hog.”

“The wild boar of course.” Fëanáro said, grinning back at Nolofinwë. “The littlest ones are called squeakers.”

“Now, one day, ten little squeakers decided to have an adventure,” Fëanáro took Nolofinwë’s feet in his palms. “They decided to bring flowers to their mother. So, they decided to ask the creatures of the forest for a little help. They wanted to bring flowers from the high mountains, from the fields, from the trees, from the forest floor and from the water.”

“So the first little squeaker asked the eagle if he could bring a flower from the high mountains.” Fëanáro pointed to a little toe. “What could the eagle bring for the little piglet?”

“I don’t know.” The boy replied quietly, looking down at his toes. 

“Edelweiss and gentian, they grow on the high mountains.” Fëanáro explained, more patient than he had ever been to his apprentices. “So the first piglet received a white, woolly edelweiss and the second piglet received a blue gentian. They were very happy, because they were not strong enough yet to make the trip to the mountain themselves. You have seen drawings of these flowers, haven’t you?”

Nolofinwë nodded, feeling a little forlorn that he had never been to a forest nor a mountain, but his older brother seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything. 

“The third little piglet would like some flowers from the field, so they asked the fox who was very resourceful and could travel far and wide.”

“The fox could bring foxglove!”

They both laughed. And so the story went on. The fourth piglet received a wild poppy from the bear, the fifth received a thistle from the wolf, the six, alyssum from the lynx, the seventh, cherry flowers from up a tree from the squirrel, the eighth, Lily of the Valley from a badger, the ninth, Star of the Forest from the adder, and then a water lily from the frog for the tenth little piglet. By the end of the story, Nolofinwë grew comfortable enough to allow Fëanáro to brush his hair, which he had previously resisted vehemently. Still, the elfling warned his older brother not to scrape his ears. Nonetheless, Fëanáro was satisfied that he had taken good enough care of Nolofinwë’s appearance that Lady Indis should not chide the child too much when she would see him.

  


The light from Laurelin is in full bloom now, but the study has gotten a little chilly without the hearth being lit. A wind is coming through an unlatched window in the study. Fëanor picks up the scroll and takes another look – the drawing is really quite well done. The individual characteristics of each flower has been considered. Even the piglets have got different patterned stripes on each one. The writing has been neatly done as well. Nolofinwë has chosen not to use his Mother-name with him, but that does not matter for now. He rolls up the scroll and ties the scroll with a thread. He will bring it to Míriel Þerindë, his mother, together with a bouquet of flowers. It has been the only thing he could do for her. 

Fëanor makes a note to organise a trip to the forest with Nerdanel very soon. They are sorely in need of some quality time outside the workshops. This time, he will bring his half-brother Nolofinwë.


End file.
